


Kairos

by Werif_esteria



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, Dubious Consent, M/M, Road Trips, Sassy Peter Hale, Slow Burn, Spark Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2018-09-18 02:23:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9361637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Werif_esteria/pseuds/Werif_esteria
Summary: Stiles has spent years growing his power, taming his Spark, doing everything to ensure he'll never be helpless--only to find himself beholden to Peter Hale yet again.As usual, Peter wants.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *SEE CHAPTER 2 FOR ACTUAL FIRST CHAPTER*
> 
> I'm leaving this (chapter 1) up for anyone who read it the first time. After a lot of editing, I finally got the story on track. Please head to chapter 2 and tell me what you think about the new opening of Kairos!

“Stiles is going to hate this,” Scott groans as he signs the contract. The ink flares red before seeping into the parchment. The Alpha inhales and recoils, already feeling the agreement settle into place.

“Wrong. He’s going to hate you.” Peter Hale grins, relishing the thought of conflict between the two best friends. Were they still best friends? Stiles hadn’t been around in years, and Peter doesn’t actively monitor their communication anymore, so he really has no idea how close the two are these days. For the boy to remain the McCall pack’s emissary, though, their bond has to be strong.

Peter is counting on it.

~*~

Wings flicker in and out of human sight, iridescent where they catch the moonlight, black where they reflect the pouring rain.

Stiles’ back hits the wall, but he barely winces. This is not how he was planning on spending his vacation, thank you very much. Scott is spat out of the fray and affords him a passing look of concern before leaping back into the literal storm of pixies currently attempting to raise the Nematon.

As if they have a chance in hell of resurrecting that blackened stump.

Stiles does notice a tiny green sprout beginning to force its way through the cracked bark and decides enough is enough. He taps the amplifier on the chain around his neck. The bead begins to glow, sparking to life as it feeds off the power inside him. There are other, more fun ways to do this, but this is by far the fastest method of harnessing his energy.

The bead starts to burn against his skin, and it’s time to let go. Stiles snaps his fingers once and the storm freezes. Water droplets hover in the air, tiny, sparkling globes, and the pixies are mesmerized. Stiles would be mesmerized—he likes shiny things, okay—if he hadn’t already used this particular move multiple times before.

Scott and the rest of his pack straighten up from their crouches. The Alpha closes his eyes and lets his face revert to human, knowing what’s about to happen.

The droplets elongate and turn to shards of ice, wicked sharp. Stiles’ smile is equally vicious as he releases the built-up energy into the environment.

There’s a whoosh, like the entire clearing is breathing out. The ice shreds the pixies in an instant, leaving nothing but small piles of bloody remains behind. Stiles snaps his fingers again and the stump of the Nematon bursts into flames, the sprout destroyed instantly.

“Isn’t there some riddle about a guy getting stabbed, only the murder weapon is an icicle and the icicle melts, so no one ever figures out how they did it?” Stiles is damn proud of his ability to ignore sights that would make a weaker man vomit on the spot, but he knows that some of the others are a tad more squeamish. There are a few newly bitten wolves that he vaguely recognizes from pack Skype sessions, and he can tell they’re young—barely older than he and Scott when they were first sucked into the supernatural. Scott must have had good reason for turning them so young.

The flames snuff out suddenly, and Stiles grins at his Alpha.

“Well, Scotty, not that this hasn’t been a fun way to spend my week off, but I’ve got some business to attend to halfway around the world. We’ll talk soon.” The tragedy of being the most powerful mage in the world in addition to the most powerful emissary is that Stiles is often away from Beacon Hills for years at a time. But since his father had passed, he doesn’t mind being away much. He’ll need to book a hotel somewhere in town for the night, because he isn’t about to unlock his dad’s house.

Some things are too painful, will always be too painful.

Scott’s tone of voice when he calls out to Stiles is all he needs to hear to know something is wrong.

“Actually, Stiles,” Scott begins, and Stiles is off and running because he has wrestled ogres and been dragged to the depths of a surprisingly deep pond by bloodthirsty kelpies. He’s mediated fights between ancient witch covens and thrown himself into an active volcano to fake a virgin sacrifice (many years ago, thankyouverymuch). He’s burned, carved, and poked patterns into his body for the express purpose of tapping into an ethereal force that runs through his veins like midi-chlorians or some shit, and yet nothing unnerves him so much as Scott’s tone of voice when he’s done something he knows he shouldn’t have.

Fuck waiting around to rescue his idiot alpha, he’s getting out of here.

Peter Hale stepping out from behind a tree in typical creepy fashion confirms his suspicions. Stiles pulls up short, Peter to his front, Scott and the pack behind him, cautious. Peter smirks, because of course he does. The forest is still.

“Stiles. You’re looking—well.” Peter knows he’ll probably end up with a face full of ice shards if he doesn’t act quickly, but he can’t help but take a moment to admire this new Stiles. Adulthood has wrought some…improvements.

The baby fat—what little there was—is completely gone. He’s grown taller, though not quite as tall as Peter. He’s kept the longer hair. Perhaps the buzz cut reminded him too much of his time as a helpless, skinny sixteen-year-old running on sarcasm and adrenaline. Perhaps it reminded him that those moments of helplessness were usually around Peter.  
The horrid plaid button-downs have disappeared, replaced with a tight black shirt that teen Stiles wouldn’t have worn to save his life. The shirt hugs his chest, hinting at finely toned muscles.

As usual, Peter wants.

As usual, Peter will take what he can get. For now, it’s what Scott owes him. The alpha reeks of chagrin and regret, so much so that Stiles doesn’t even need his rune-enhanced senses to feel it. And that’s not making him any calmer.

“Someone that’s not me better start talking, or I’m gone,” Stiles says as his bead starts to glow. “In fact, I’m probably gone even if someone starts talking really well. Like, even if whoever starts talking sounds logical and gorgeous. Still gone.”

Scott resigns himself to at least a year of passive aggressive texts and terse conversations with his emissary. Maybe two. Stiles has been known to hold some epic grudges in the past.

“I promised him a favor,” the Alpha begins, and Stiles already hates where this is going. “Back when we were having trouble with that pack of wendigos and you were in New Zealand and no one could communicate with them, I promised Peter a favor in exchange for his help.” Because it’s always Stiles’ fault, innit?

“Really, Scott? You couldn’t just catch and release them into the wild? They’re basically huge, man-eating bunnies. Harmless. Completely unworthy of tapping Peter Hale for help.”

“I didn’t know he’d ask for your services.”

Stils has known Scott McCall for over twenty years. He knows his best friend can be foolish at times, but never has he known him to act like a complete and utter idiot.

Scratch that, he actually has.

The mage closes his eyes for a minute, ostensibly to control his emotions but really to keep himself from frying the entire preserve.

“Scott. Peter is a conniving, murderous, psycho, power hungry, bloodthirsty zombie wolf who has tried to murder both of us multiple times. He treats people like they’re expendable. He does anything that gets him closer to being the most powerful bad guy in the room. And you didn’t think for a minute that maybe, just maybe, his big ‘favor’ might involve gaining some level of power over the strongest mage on the continent?”

Scott’s blank look makes Stiles feel like they’re both sixteen again.

The Alpha recalculates. He’ll be lucky if all he gets from Stiles are some angry texts. At this rate, he fully expects to be blasted into a million pieces within the next few seconds. He decides retreat is the safest option.

“I’ll leave you two to work out the details, okay? I’ll go take care of…pack stuff. Yep.” Scott actually turns tail and runs, the rest of the pack right behind him. Stiles will end them. After he deals with Peter. He turns to glare at the older man.

“You do know I’m not giving you shit, right?”

Peter grins, what seems like genuine warmth flooding his eyes. “Oh, but I’ve missed you, Stiles.”

He sounds like he means it, and Stiles wants to believe. Almost believes. Almost lets his guard down. Until he sees Peter’s closed fist heading towards his face.

His reflexes sped up by countless charms and runes, Stiles has no trouble snagging the werewolf’s wrist before any part of him makes contact. But that’s not enough to stop Peter from unfurling his fingers, releasing a tiny puff of pink smoke right into Stiles’ face.

It phases right through Stiles’ antidote wards. Of course. Scott was dumb enough to sign and ratify an actual agreement. Peter is well within his rights to take what he’s been promised.

“We’ll have to discuss our arrangement when you’re feeling a little more reasonable.”

First his movement goes, then his vision, and Stiles drops to the ground twitching. He’s barely conscious when he feels Peter lift him bridal style. The wolf’s touch is gentle, but that must be the poison affecting his sensory input because Peter doesn’t do gentle. Peter is fire and blood and pain and rage, and Stiles has apparently been traded to him for information he could have provided had Scott shot him a simple text.

Ok, so maybe it would have taken more than a text to rip him out of the time loop he’d gotten sucked into while working to save the last kiwi—the bird, although the fruit is also a precious gift from the goddesses—in existence, but still. He’s going to kill his Alpha.

“I really did miss you,” he hears, and that must be the poison, too.


	2. The Real Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy this rewritten, reimagined, better-in-all-ways opening chapter. Let me know what you think!

“Stiles is going to hate this,” Scott groans. As he bends over the contract, his shirt pulls taut across his broad shoulders. The pup has finally grown up. It took long enough. He pauses just before he signs, the tip of his pen hovering over the paper. “He won’t hate me, though, will he? It’s not like you haven’t worked together before.”

For a minute, Peter sees—and hears and scents—fifteen-year-old Scott McCall, newly turned wolf, in place of California’s most influential Alpha. It’s true that Scott has always had a strange kind of soft spot for the phantoms of his past. Compared to what he and his pack have faced since Peter’s first murderous rampage over a decade ago, it’s understandable that the boy—or man, now—might trust Peter more than he should. 

Foolish.

Taking Peter’s silence as the assurance that it most certainly is not, Scott finally allows his pen to glide across the page, the ink flaring red before seeping into the paper. The Alpha inhales and recoils, already feeling the agreement settle into place—Stiles’ emissary contract has been temporarily signed over to Peter. 

It’s a cruel, ancient system of rules meant to bind magic users to a wolf pack, willing or not. 

The need for such things has long since gone, but the tradition remains—and it just so happens to benefit Peter to an almost ridiculous degree. He will have what he’s searched the world twice over for yet.

“Wrong. He’s going to hate you,” Peter grins, amused by the thought of conflict between the two best friends. Are they still best friends? Stiles hasn’t been around Beacon Hills in years, and Peter doesn’t actively monitor their communication anymore, so he really has no idea how close the two are these days. For the boy to remain the McCall pack’s emissary, though, their bond has to be strong. Only a powerful emissary can match a True Alpha.

Peter is counting on it.

 

~~~

 

Wings flicker in and out of human sight, iridescent where they catch the moonlight, black where they reflect the pouring rain. It’s not a nice night to be outdoors, for humans and supernatural beings alike, but the pixies swarming the clearing don’t seem to care.

Stiles’ back hits a tree trunk, hard, but he barely winces. Instead, his lips draw back in a snarl reminiscent of Peter back in his crazy days. This is not how he was planning on spending his vacation, thanks very much, and someone is going to get their ass handed to them for interrupting the first Star Wars marathon Beacon Hills has seen in years. 

With a roar and a wet _plop_ , Scott is spat out of the fray in similar fashion and affords him a passing look of concern before leaping back into the literal storm of tiny, angry flying fairies currently attempting to raise the Nemeton. 

If it were anyone else, Stiles might be a little offended at the lack of concern for his bodily wellbeing. But it’s Scott, and Scott knows what Stiles has become better than anyone else—frequent phone calls and overseas FaceTimes have helped the Alpha and his emissary to stay close enough to maintain their bond over the years and miles. 

You don’t stop being brothers just because you’re on different continents. Scott had always been there for Stiles, no matter what he was going through. And Stiles—well, he did his best. He’s always fulfilled his duties as emissary. But sometimes, Scott watches Stiles’ eyes go blank over FaceTime, his interest in their conversation fading as he puzzles over some question deep inside his brain, and he wonders if he knows Stiles nearly as well as Stiles knows him.

The pixies dart through the air unbothered by the rain, and only slightly bothered by the small dent the pack has been able to make in their numbers. They just. Keep. Coming. Their chattering fills the clearing—somehow managing to make the sound of a thousand tiny bells sound ominous as all get out—like they’re excited about something. Like they’re getting close to something.

As if they have a chance in hell of resurrecting that blackened stump.

Stiles spares a glance for the impotent thing and is shocked to notice a tiny green sprout beginning to force its way through the cracked bark. That definitely wasn’t there when they’d crashed into the clearing, guns blazing, to find the little demons crawling all over the place.

The sprout is glowing.

Stiles decides enough is enough, he’s already killed this thing twice. He’s running out of patience for these pathetic attempts. Tapping the amplifier hanging from a chain around his neck with one slender finger, he calls his spark. The little bead begins to glow, and he feels an answering glow somewhere in his lower intestine. 

He’d really love to dissect himself, if that were ever possible. Magic was fantastic, but a lot of its “answers” had turned out to be more questions. And if there’s anything in this world Stiles hates more than interrupted movie marathons, it’s an unanswered question.

The amplifier continues to suck up his magic, the gentle glow quickly turning to an unpleasant drain. He grimaces. There are other, way more fun ways to do this, but this is by far the fastest method of harnessing his energy for something this big—and it was going to be big.

And glorious.

The bead starts to burn against his skin, and it’s time to let the power go, prodding it now and then in a certain direction, but mostly letting it be. 

When everything is ready, Stiles snaps his fingers once—and the storm freezes.

Water droplets hover in the air like tiny, sparkling snow globes without the snow. The pixies are mesmerized. Stiles would be mesmerized—he likes shiny things, okay—if he hadn’t already used this particular move many times before. He still loves it for its beauty, but has come to value it for its efficiency.

Scott and the rest of his pack straighten up from their fighting crouches, batting away the odd pixie. The Alpha closes his eyes and lets his face shift back, knowing what’s about to happen. 

Even after all this time, he’s still the goofy, asthmatic kid Stiles convinced to go hunting for dead bodies with him. Still too good.

Much of Stiles’ last decade has been spent making sure Scott stays that way.

The droplets elongate and turn to shards of ice, wicked sharp. They spin slowly in the air until each is pointed directly at a pixie. Stiles’ smile is equally vicious as he releases the built-up energy into the environment.

There’s a sound like the entire clearing is breathing out. The ice daggers shred the pixies in an instant, leaving nothing but small piles of bloody remains behind. They fall to the ground with soft _plops._ The rain has finally stopped as well, and the clearing is quiet. For added effect, Stiles snaps his fingers again. The stump of the Nematon bursts into flames, the sprout turning to ash instantly.

Job well done, if he does say so himself. Time to get back to the finer things in life, like watching Leia eviscerate Han Solo.

“Isn’t there some riddle or movie or short story about a guy getting stabbed, only the murder weapon is an icicle and the icicle melts, so no one ever figures out how they did it?” Stiles is damn proud of his ability to ignore sights that would make a weaker man vomit on the spot, but he knows that some of the others are a tad more squeamish. There are a few newly bitten wolves that he vaguely recognizes from pack Skype sessions, and he can tell they’re young—barely older than he and Scott when they were first sucked into the supernatural. Scott must have had good reason for turning them so young. He has a good reason behind everything he does.

The flames snuff out suddenly, leaving the Nemeton charred and crumbling, and Stiles grins at his Alpha. He’s giddy with the expulsion of so much power. The wind is in his veins. Suddenly, he’d rather be anywhere but in the same small town he grew up in. He’s gotta go.

“Well, Scotty, not that this hasn’t been a fun way to spend my week off, but I’ve got some business to attend to halfway around the world. We’ll talk soon. And we’ll finish Return of the Jedi sooner.”

The tragedy of being one of the most powerful sparks in the world in addition to the most powerful emissary was that Stiles was often away from Beacon Hills for years at a time—researching, helping and learning from weaker sparks and other creatures. It’s an excellent life, one that Stiles loves and finds well-suited to his varying interests.

Since his father passed, he doesn’t mind being away from home, anyway. He crashes on Scott’s couch on the rare occasion when he finds himself in town, usually winding up on the bottom of a puppy pile if the pack is over. He’ll need to book a hotel somewhere in town for the night, though. The transportation spell is tricky and he needs his own space. And he isn’t about to unlock his dad’s house. He hasn’t set foot inside his childhood home since leaving the hospital that last time.

Some things are too painful, will always be too painful. That house can rot and fall to pieces, for all he cares.

Scott’s tone of voice is all he needs to hear to know something is wrong. Things are not going according to plan.

“Actually, Stiles,” Scott begins, and that’s all it takes—Stiles is off and running because he has wrestled ogres, killed wendigos, and been dragged to the depths of a surprisingly deep pond by bloodthirsty kelpies. He has mediated fights between ancient witch covens and thrown himself into an active volcano to fake a virgin sacrifice (many years ago, _thankyouverymuch_ ). He’s burned, carved, and poked patterns into his body for the express purpose of tapping into an ethereal force that runs through his veins with the scientific uncertainty of midi-chlorians or some shit, and yet nothing unnerves him more than Scott’s sheepish tone of voice when he’s done something he knows he shouldn’t have.

Fuck waiting around to rescue his idiot Alpha from whatever fresh hell his well-meaning actions have wrought, he’s getting out of there.

Peter Hale stepping out from behind a tree in typical creepy fashion confirms his suspicions. Stiles pulls up short, Peter to his front, Scott and the pack behind him. The air fills with the smells of Scott’s chagrin, the pack’s confusion. Peter smirks, because of course he does. The forest is still.

“Stiles. You’re looking—well.” Peter knows he’ll probably end up with a face full of ice shards if he doesn’t act quickly, but he can’t help but take a moment to admire this new Stiles. He hasn’t seen the spark in over five years. Adulthood has wrought some…improvements, to say the least.

The baby fat—what little there was—is completely gone. He’s taller, though not quite as tall as Peter. He’s kept the longer hair. Perhaps the buzz cut reminded him too much of his time as a helpless, skinny sixteen-year-old running on sarcastic quips and adrenaline. Perhaps it reminded him that those moments of helplessness were usually around Peter.

The horrid plaid button-downs have disappeared, too, replaced with a tight black shirt that teen Stiles wouldn’t have worn to save his life. The shirt hugs his chest, hinting at finely toned muscles.

As usual, Peter wants.

As usual, Peter will take what he can get. For now, it’s what Scott owes him. The Alpha reeks of embarrassment, so much so that Stiles doesn’t even need his rune-enhanced senses to feel it. And that’s not making him any calmer.

“Someone that’s not me better start talking, or I’m gone,” Stiles says as his amplifier starts to glow. “In fact, I’m probably gone even if someone starts talking some really good talk. Like, even if whoever starts talking is clear and to the point and _makes sense_. Still gone.”

Scott resigns himself to at least a year of passive aggressive texts and terse conversations with his emissary. Maybe two. Stiles has been known to hold some epic grudges in the past. But he would come around in the end. Stiles could never stay mad at him.

“I promised him a favor,” the Alpha begins, and Stiles already hates where this is going. His words are not to the point, and they sound like a series of pointless questions. “Back when we were having trouble with that pack of wendigos? And you were in New Zealand and no one could communicate with them? I…promised Peter a favor in exchange for his help.”

Because it’s always Stiles’ fault, isn’t it? He was making friends—or at least casual acquaintance—with the Patupaiarehe, for the Goddess’ sake. They didn’t exactly value cell service in their realm.

“Really, Scott? You couldn’t just catch and release them into the wild? They’re basically huge, man-eating bunnies. Harmless. Completely unworthy of tapping _Peter fucking Hale_ for help.”

“I didn’t know he’d ask for your services!” Scott breaks eye contact.

Stiles has known Scott McCall for over multiple decades. He knows his best friend can be foolish at times, but never has he known him to be a complete and utter idiot.

Scratch that, he actually has.

The spark closes his eyes for a minute, ostensibly to control his emotions but really to keep himself from frying the entire preserve. Sure, he’s powerful as heck and has excellent self control, but his power can tell when he wants to destroy something, and sometimes it just really wants to help him out.

“Scott,” Stiles starts, praying to every goddess he’s ever met for patience, “Peter is a conniving, murderous, psycho, power hungry, bloodthirsty zombie wolf who has tried to murder the both of us multiple times. He treats people like they’re expendable. He does anything that gets him closer to being the most powerful bad guy in the room. And you didn’t think for a minute that maybe, just maybe, his big ‘favor’ might involve gaining some level of power over the strongest spark on the continent?”

“That’d be the world, darling,” Peter calls over.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Stiles spits. If they’d been something like cautious friends once, that had ended the first time Peter tried to trade a lock of Stiles’ hair for information on one of his numerous enemies. Creep.

Scott’s blank look makes Stiles think for a second that they’ve been sucked into some kind of time loop and sent back to high school and Stiles is the only one saying things that make sense but _in spite of his logic_ Scott is insisting on trusting Peter or running off and making a secret deal with Deucalion.

The Alpha recalculates. He’ll be lucky if all he gets from Stiles are some angry texts. At this rate, he fully expects to be blasted into a million pieces within the next few seconds. He decides retreat is by far the safest option.

“I’ll leave you two to work out the details, okay? I’ll go take care of—pack stuff. Yep. Good luck!” Scott actually, literally turns tail and runs, the rest of the pack right behind him. Stiles will end them. After he deals with Peter. He turns to glare at the older man. He looks like he hasn’t aged since he woke up from the coma. Bastard.

“You do know I’m not giving you shit, right?” Stiles is not in the goddamn mood to be messed with right now. He _is_ in the mood to see whether Peter would survive if he found himself transported a thousand feet directly overhead.

Peter grins, what seems like genuine warmth flooding his eyes, and that derails Stiles’ thoughts a little. “Oh, but I’ve missed you, Stiles.”

He sounds like he means it, and Stiles wants to believe. Almost believes. Almost lets his guard down. Until he sees Peter’s closed fist heading towards his face.

He should have trusted his instincts and fled the minute he realized Scott had done him dirty in one way or another. Because Peter is a dangerous enemy—depending on how involved with the pack he’s been in Stiles’ absence, he could know just about every one of Stiles’ tricks and traps. Only one way to find out.

His reflexes sped up by countless charms and runes, Stiles has no trouble snagging the werewolf’s wrist before any part of him makes contact. But that’s not enough to stop Peter from unfurling his fingers, releasing a tiny puff of pink smoke right into Stiles’ face. It smells like cinnamon.

It also phases right through Stiles’ antidote wards. Of course. Scott was dumb enough to sign and ratify an actual transfer of service agreement. Peter is now impervious to the vast majority of Stiles’ magical expertise. Fucking old world magical law.

“We’ll have to discuss our arrangement when you’re feeling a little more reasonable.” Peter’s voice filters through to him like he’s deep, deep underwater.

First his movement goes, then his vision, then Stiles drops to the ground twitching. He’s barely conscious when he feels Peter lift him bridal style. The wolf’s touch is gentle, but that must be the poison affecting his sensory input because Peter doesn’t do gentle, hasn’t done gentle in all the years Stiles has reluctantly associated with him. Peter is fire and blood and pain and rage—give or take some measure of sanity—and Stiles has apparently been traded to him for information he could have provided had Scott shot him a simple text.

Ok, so maybe it would have taken more than a text to rip him out of the fairy realm he’d been having such a good time in, but still. He’s going to kill his Alpha, be that blasphemy or no.

“I really did miss you,” he hears, and that must be the poison, too.

 


	3. Stiles Likes Shiny Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, I'm gonna be one of THOSE authors, I guess. A thousand apologies for being so irregular with this story. It's my very first time posting my writing, so I'm finding the whole process a little intimidating. But your kudos and comments mean the absolute world to me, and I'm determined to press on in a more timely fashion! 
> 
> Note: no non-con in this chapter (probably in this whole story honestly, but I'll be sure to note if that changes), but Stiles does find himself held captive in a bed.

Stiles swims towards consciousness like a toddler at his very first swim lesson—which is to say, he doesn’t so much swim as thrash his way to safety. His head is throbbing. His muscles ache. His mouth tastes like a kanima took a dump in it. And the sunlight peaking through the curtains next to the bed isn’t giving his biological clock much to go on—it could be the morning after he torched the Nematon and shredded the pixies, or it could be three days after that. He doesn’t know.

Stiles doesn’t like not knowing.

A careful exploration of his sore muscles and immediate surroundings reveals that, while he’s not outwardly damaged beyond a few bruises, he is tied to the bed by a short chain attached to a very shiny silver bracelet hooked around his wrist. Huh. 

He scrambles to sit up in the bed, silken sheets pooling in his lap, and finds himself examining the metalwork of the piece before doing anything else, because it’s so s h i n y. Truly, it’s beautiful, crafted to look like an intricate, twisting pattern of leaves. A faint ringing seems to emanate from the thing, in a way that makes it seem almost alive. Stiles can’t seem to find a clasp—it curls around his wrist unbroken. He closes his eyes, thinking maybe if he uses his spark to enhance his eyesight a little, he’ll be able to find the release mechanism—

Oh. Oh.

He calls, and there is no answer. His magic is still there, but it’s trapped beneath the surface of his skin like a beast stuffed into a too-small cage. Stiles turns a new, hateful eye to the cuff, finally recognizing it for what it is—not just a pretty manacle. He’s never seen an inhibitor this beautiful. The ones he’s sawed off of captive Sparks and other magical creatures have been heavy, ugly things, meant to subdue with pain. This one seems meant to control something delicate, perhaps some kind of fey. 

The door to the bedroom swings open, and Stiles does his best to look like the kind of pet no one would want to keep. Something vile and vicious, the complete opposite of the image the cuff suggests. He imagines himself hissing at the intruder, clawing his own wrist bloody until the cuff slips off, then leaping through the nearest window. He’d disappear in an instant, the winds carrying him deep into a wood somewhere. Maybe he’d spend a few weeks feral—it had been far too long since he’d let his baser instincts take over. But putting his future plans aside, he settles for leveling a venomous stare at Peter Hale where he stands in the doorway. Of course the asshole would kidnap him.

“You look like you slept well,” the man says and grins, open appreciation on his face, and Stiles tenses even more because he’s suddenly wildly aware of the fact that Peter is walking forward into this tiny room to loom over him and he is tied to a bed and and this is scarily similar to the start of almost every single wet dream he had throughout high school. And college. 

Except he’s not in school at all anymore and psychopathic murderous kidnapper werewolves don’t exactly get his libido fired up when he’s the one being kidnapped. He shakes his head once, hoping to rattle his thoughts back into place. “One, cut the bullshit, Peter,” he snaps, “two, take this—” he rattles the cuff against the headboard “—off, and three, tell me what the fuck you want from me.” 

“And in return, you won’t kick my ass, is that it?” Peter smirks like something about the idea is funny, but for the life of him, Stiles can’t see what that something could possibly be. 

“Oh, we’re so far past that, buddy,” Stiles says, “I’m kicking your ass from here to the faerie realm and back again no matter what you have to say. The only variable here is exactly how angry I’m going to be while doing it.” 

The wolf chuckles and lets a little red bleed into his hazel eyes in answer to the threat. Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin and goddess is he stupid, Stiles is so stupid, because of course Peter has to be an Alpha for Scott to have signed over his contract. Peter hadn’t been one the last time he’d seen him over five years ago, but then Peter was never one to be content with anything less than absolute strength. Stiles has made friends with a lot of packs over the years, and he desperately hopes it’s not someone he knew lying dead and rotting, throat torn out, blood spilt onto thirsty soil. He grits his teeth and asks again, “What. Do. You. Want?” 

This time, Peter deigns to answer. But of course it’s literally as vague as possible and decidedly not what Stiles wants to hear. “I want your help with a spell,” he says.

Stiles looks at him flatly. “A spell.” He receives only a nod and has to roll his eyes, because could the werewolf be any less helpful? Probably, if he really put his mind to it. He sighs, in tiredness and annoyance and absolute frustration that the wolf insists on being an enigma. “What kind of spell are we talking?” 

Peter gets a kind of shifty look in his eyes at this, looking away and coughing delicately. For the first time, Stiles senses something less than sure about him. “That’s not something you need to know at the moment.” The wolf pointedly avoids looking at Stiles.“What’s something I do need to know, then?”

“That I need a lock of your hair and some of your blood to complete the ritual—” and Peter might as well stop there, because Stiles is so not going along with whatever blood magic Peter thinks he’s playing with, “—and that it doesn’t necessarily need to be freely given.” 

Well, then. He scrambles backwards instinctively until his back is against the headboard, the cuff pulling against his wrist, the short chain jangling quietly. When Peter doesn’t immediately spring across the room to start ripping out chunks of his hair, he uncoils slightly but maintains as defensive a posture as he can manage. The wolf looks amused.

Stiles levels Peter with a look as intimidating as he can make it from the bed. “I’m assuming the hair needs to be newly cut?”

“And the blood freshly spilt,” Peter nods.

“How far away is the ritual site?” Stiles tells himself to breathe, to think practically, even though his instincts are pushing him to scrabble at the inhibitor with all his strength, with the unreasonable expectation that it would break and send his magic flowing back into his hands. He isn’t keen on being held hostage like this any longer than necessary, so hopefully the place where the spell needs to be performed is still in the state, hopefully he can just do it and be done and free and get away from the wolf—

“It’s a bit of a trek. Colorado.” And the Spark’s heart sinks. Scott has always been lenient in his invocation of their bond, only activating the stricter components when absolutely necessary, like when Stiles was across the sea and the pack was in mortal peril that one—okay, those two times. Stiles worries that Peter is more of the Old World type of Alpha. Capable of utilizing every aspect of the bond with no compunction, no care for Stiles’ safety or will. The thought of his spark essentially enslaved to the wolf, himself at his every beck and call, complicit in an unknown ritual, causes bile to rise in Stiles’ throat. Panic claws at his insides, but he forces it down, forces himself to settle against the headboard and consider his options while Peter looks on with quiet interest. 

He can’t afford to waste days fulfilling the terms of his transferred service contract—Stiles has operations in progress around the globe that need his attention. Even Beacon Hills shouldn’t go unattended for too long. But Peter—Peter didn’t care about any of that. Stiles doesn’t see many options if he wants the wolf to declare the contract fulfilled and return his Emissary ties to Scott and his pack. He doesn’t want to think about what could happen to the town or his friends if the protections he’d woven around the area were to dissolve. Theoretically, they should last for at least a year on their own, but he won’t be able to renew them if he’s still trapped in Peter’s employ. 

So refusing is out of the question, really, unless he gets his hands on the contract Scott had signed and finds a loophole. Even that is questionable. He looks up at the wolf again. Takes a deep breath. “Assuming I agree to go along with this and not fight you every miserable mile of this road trip, I’ll need your word on a few things.”


	4. Stiles Hates This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's ready for things to GET ROLLIN'? Me, almost.

He looks up at the wolf again. Takes a deep breath. “Assuming I agree to go along with this and not fight you every miserable mile of this road trip, I’ll need your word on a few things.”

“Oh?” Peter smirks and prowls forward, drawing even nearer to Stiles’ bed. He’s so assured of his victory, the satisfaction oozing from him in waves. Dick. Stiles does his best to avoid the thought of his closeness, instead focusing on the sickening thrum of the inhibitor around his wrist. The wolf is getting what he wants—a Spark willing to help him with whatever hellish spell he’s set his sights on—surely he can afford Stiles a few concessions.

“You won’t kill me or maim me or take more than the absolute minimum of hair and blood that the ritual requires.” Stiles spits out the basics quickly. If Peter can’t even do this, can’t promise that he won’t emerge relatively whole, there’s no point in even pretending to go along with him.

“Fair enough. I never intended to kill you.” 

Stiles snorts at this. Never intended. Peter’s always been so careful with his words, slick and precise enough to come out of every shady deal without a hint of blame or damage to his reputation. The wolf was known worldwide as a dealer of information. All manner of creatures, human and nonhuman alike, seek his knowledge. And none walk away without giving up something of extreme value. Those that reneged on their promises always wound up…less than whole. 

Stiles had been meaning to do something to quell Peter’s underground activities for years. But whenever he would think about confronting the wolf, about looking at that once-familiar face and finding the man behind it reduced to a mere stranger, the idea hurt. Excuse after excuse had allowed him to put off the confrontation. After all, there are always bigger, more pressing matters in the world to handle than one bloodthirsty dealer of secrets. Sparks to free, supernatural cultures to explore and understand and the like. 

Besides, Stiles has never looked kindly on people who break their promises. Anyone who gets involved with Peter knows what they’re signing up for, in his opinion. He grits his teeth. Except those who don’t have a choice. 

“And you’ll take the inhibitor off.” He holds out his wrist, puts every ounce of authority he can muster into his voice. 

Peter shakes his head at this. “I don’t think so.” Stiles snarls, loses himself a bit as he tugs against the chain. If he could only reach Peter, claw his eyes out, maybe rip out his heart…and then find himself still trapped and chained to the bed. 

The wolf watches him with endless amusement. “If this is what you’re like without your magic, I’d hate to see what a mess you’d make of me at full strength.” 

“You know as well as I do that our contract guarantees you immunity from my spark,” Stiles says flatly, his head down, lips closed tightly over teeth that feel like fangs. He’s been spending too much time talking to Derek. The dude’s first response has always and will always be to take a bite out of his latest annoyance. “So it’s not as if I’ll be able to bewitch you or rip your limbs off anytime soon.”

“And you know as well as I that there are endless ways around that provision,” Peter actually has the nerve to tick a few off on his fingers. “If your magic just so happened to fell a tree, and then that tree fell on me, well, that’s not breaking the contract.” Stiles rolls his eyes.

“If you used your spark to make a sinkhole open right in front of me and I happened to fall into it, there’s nothing in the contract mentioning protection from sudden natural disasters. If—“

“Okay, you’re right, I’d find a way to kill you the second this thing was off and damn the consequences,” Stiles says. “Forget I asked. Demanded. Whatever, jeez.”

Peter shuffles yet another step closer and looks at him earnestly, which is a surprise. Not the looking, but the emotion behind it. He’s always looking at him. Usually with slightly differing expressions of want and greed. Stiles learned to be more annoyed than angry about it a long time ago, especially when it was so easy to shift those intense looks to annoyance. But this look is different, and Stiles doesn’t understand what it means, what Peter is thinking.

“I know it’s frustrating, being cut off from your power. But you don’t trust me.” 

“For good reason,” Stiles mutters, and Peter ignores.

“I would like you to understand that this is something I’ve been working towards for a long time,” he leans over Stiles, but his gaze lacks the usual sexual intensity, and Stiles feels like—goddess, the wolf is trying to connect with him here—“and all I can offer you is my word that you will be safe, and the completed spell will hurt no one.”  
Stiles’ stony glare does nothing to deter him. He presses on, as if it really is important that Stiles understand the exact terms of his enslavement, when really the only thing that matters is that Peter has finally caught Stiles, has him at his disposal, will likely find some way to rip him open and bleed him dry— 

“As I said, I have no intention of killing you,” Peter says, and Stiles wonders for a minute if the contract had included a way to read his mind. “I’ll even pay you handsomely for your time,” Peter offers. That makes Stiles sooooo suspicious, there is just no way whatever spell Peter is trying to wring out of him is on the up-and-up. But what choice did he have? With his spark unavailable until further notice, he’ll have to go along with Peter to some degree. 

“Once I help you perform this spell,” Stiles wets his lips, “you’ll deem our contract fulfilled”

“And return you immediately to Scott’s smothering embrace,” Peter finishes smugly. 

That’s as good as he’s likely to get, so that’s good enough for Stiles. The Spark sticks his free hand out, watching Peter’s eyes narrow in interest. He leans against the edge of the bed and clasps Stiles’ hand in a firm grip. Then he yanks up and towards him, pulling until Stiles’ shackled arm is stretched out behind him and his amber eyes are a hairsbreadth from Peter’s own. 

“But just so you know, Stiles,” the wolf whispers, breath caressing the younger man’s face, “I am being as nice as I can about employing your services. But there is no getting out of our bargain. You will do this for me.”

Stiles glares up at him. “Don’t give me a reason to fight you, and you’ll get what you want.” 

Peter tilts his head. “I’ll get what I want regardless. I could force you the whole way, you know.”

Stiles laughs, because of course he knows. With the binding contract in place, he’s really and truly at the wolf’s mercy. Scott had never and would never cross that line, but Peter could probably cause him unimaginable pain with a single word if he made a wrong move. Like a goddamn Harry Potter curse. 

“You’re welcome to try, Peter.” Stiles knows he’d eventually break under torture of that kind—despite years of training and desensitizing himself to pain, just the threat of violence always sends him back to the beating he’d received in Gerard’s basement as a teen. Stiles doesn’t think anything will ever fully cure him of the rush of panic that fills him when he remembers what it felt like to be hung from his wrists, devastatingly weak and utterly helpless. So he laughs, because the alternative isn’t palatable.

Peter narrows his eyes at that, red seeping into his gaze, and Stiles wonders if he’s about to test out the limits of his new control over him. But then Peter blinks and his Alpha eyes are gone. He releases his grip on Stiles’ hand slowly, and moves towards the door. 

“We leave first thing tomorrow,” he tosses over his shoulder. “Try not to destroy my bedroom in your sleep.” 

The door snaps closed as Stiles looks around the room in horror. How does he get himself into these situations? Chained up in the veritable belly of the beast. He flops back onto the—admittedly very comfortable—bed with a sigh.

Of course, that’s when he realizes he desperately needs to use the bathroom. 

“Peter?” he calls halfheartedly. It’s not like the wolf won’t be able to hear him, unless he’s completely left the property already. He waits, but there is no answer. Stiles shifts on the bed, bladder annoyingly full.

Stiles gets a horrible idea.


End file.
